


Your Hands are Like a War Memorial

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: "machine", Depression, I don't know what else to tag, M/M, and quit frankly neither can harry, cancer fic, depressed!louis, harry has lung cancer, larry stylinson - Freeform, louis can't do anything, louis isn't willing to let go, mary lambert - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 09:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3244991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The silence was soothing and the heat was his best friend, the voices outside had become its own section in his mind. And his husband was laying in the bed.</p>
<p>Harry has lung cancer, Louis can't figure out what to do with himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Hands are Like a War Memorial

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Machine by Mary Lambert. This fic is also loosely based off of it.

It was quiet, so quiet, and warm. Maybe too warm, it hurt Louis to breathe through his nose, and his throat was dry and raw. He managed to get a few hours of sleep on the hard cotton futon, one that reminded him of having a head cold in primary school, the ones he used to lay on while waiting for his mum to pick him up. Through his prison sort of consciousness, he could hear chattering and typing and hysterical laughter out in the halls, things he was sure he was never going to miss.

But he wouldn't dare think of leaving this place. He could live here, if they didn't kick him out every night.

The silence was soothing and the heat was his best friend, the voices outside had become its own section in his mind. And his husband was laying in the bed. His soft snoring was drowned by the buzz of the hospital television and half of his face was buried beneath blankets. He looked peaceful, relaxed.

Louis could never love anyone more than he loved Harry. The younger had brought it up a few times, told him that it would be quite alright if he wanted to leave. But in sickness and in health, right? Harry was only sick. Everything was going to be okay.

And he knew he was lying to himself.

Life had been a constant, non-stuttering routine for the past year. No one really knew when they got here because it was all so abrupt. Harry's breathing gradually got worse and worse, and then suddenly he wasn't breathing at all and they ended up here.

It was the most devastating thing Louis had ever come to face. Harry was locked in the building for a year and God knows how much time he had left. He hated seeing the love of his life like this. Pale, his eyes sunken. The only words he could get out for months were that he needed a mint, he needed water, anything to get the horrid taste of vomit out of his month. And the occasional whimper of ' _please_ '.

Now he slept. With oxygen being forced through his body, he slept. It was the only thing he could do. He could talk to Louis for bits at a time but there came a point in the day where his critical situation forced him to sit and do nothing, and it was visible that it was hurting him worse than his lungs.

Louis found himself at home late at night. It was dark outside and Louis' eyes were too damp and filmed over to notice if there were any stars out to look over him. He did the same thing he always did: shut the front door behind him, shrug off his jacket, check the answering machine for any messages (none, ever, besides from his mum), heat up some leftovers from the hospital, settle down on the couch, and fall asleep until the next morning.

Louis always woke up too early, he suspected it was because Harry's big arms weren't wrapped around him, and while the hospital was too warm, his house was too cold. Without Harry. Everything without Harry was not enough and it would _never_ be.

But he couldn't leave the house until eight in the morning, strictly because the nurses didn't like when he was there, crowding the room while they changed all of Harry's IVs and medicines and sometimes his clothes.

Harry didn't like to stand, didn't like to move, didn't like to breathe. He said it hurt. He said he wanted Louis, but Louis could never really help that.

He could only hold Harry's hands through all of the pain.He could only tell him that he loved him and that he was never going to stop and that he'd never in a million years even think of leaving his side. After a few speeches about how beautiful his one and only boy is, he'd have to stop because it hurt Harry to cry.

So Louis would squeeze Harry's hands and trace over the tape and tubes and scars, would kiss his finger tips and smile into his palm. "I love you even when you cry," He would whisper. "I love you even when you hurt."

By the time it became eight o'clock Louis was all ready, showered and dressed with his keys in his hands. He had a thick beard, though, one he didn't bother to shave because one: he hadn't the energy and two: because Harry always liked him with rather than without.

He would pull up to the hospital, the closest spot he could find, and he would jog up to the doors, hurry through them, and sign his name sloppily, impatient to retrieve a visitor's pass. When he received one, he practically ran to the care-taking-cancer section of the building, and counted the doors down until 144, where his lovely husband would await.

He wasn't wearing his beanie one day, and he was smiling dopily as Louis walked through his door.

"Hey, Lou!" He rasped, his hands folded over the stupid TV controller.

"Hey, Haz."

Harry giggled.

Louis eyed his fuzzy head, a small smile on his face. He always thought Harry looked cuter without the hat.

"I'm a bit warm today, so I decided I don't need it."

"You look great," Louis said. He couldn't even tell himself if he was lying. "I love you."

"I love you too." Harry was still smiling and Louis really couldn't be happier about that. Maybe things were going to be okay. Maybe this would be an up day and Louis wouldn't have to watch Harry tear up in his sleep and let the heat eat at his throat as he tried to nap as well.

But then Harry grabbed his notepad and pen and Louis knew that soon Harry wouldn't have enough energy to get a lot of words out. So he took his seat on the futon and kicked his shoes off, waiting for Harry's eyes to droop.

Harry was sick, Louis knew, he was unbelievably sick but he couldn't quite grasp the fact that it was affecting Harry is worse ways than he could imagine.

Why was he so sick? Why was Harry given this life to barely make it through, and why was _Louis_ stuck in the middle of it? Why couldn't he be an asshole? Why couldn't he up and leave? Why wasn't he tired of eating watery pea and carrot soup?

Harry whispered over the beeping of his heart monitor, a quiet laugh forced out of his throat. "Lou, keep your shoes on, your feet stink!"

Louis smiled at him, wanting so bad to stand up and crawl into bed with him, to smile at him as he leaned down and slotted their lips together. "Sorry, love, I'm getting _way_ too comfortable here."

Harry nodded, blushing.

_Beep beep beep beep beep beep._

Louis nodded back.

Days passed as they always did, home hospital home hospital home hospital home hospital. And then it happened so fast. So _fucking_ fast and Louis didn't know what was happening, why the machine was beeping so radically and why Harry was crying more than he ever had in Louis' presence. Why were the nurses rushing in and why was Louis being shoved out and . . . why did the beeping flatline? Where was Harry?! He wanted to see Harry!

"I'm sorry, Mr. Tomlinson. I'm sorry."

Louis went home, he went through his night time routine, but this time without the tears, and before he could fall asleep on the couch, he went upstairs, to the bathroom. He just had to pee, just had to pee, just had to start the bathtub water.

* * *

 

**Louis Tomlinson, 24, North Yorkshire found dead. To be buried next to his husband of five years and cancer patient, Harry Styles-Tomlinson.**


End file.
